When my daughter was in Grade 6 and I was a single mother, we lived in a cute little north Toronto ‘war home’ built in the ’50s. It was all I could afford. Its bright red door and matching shutters set it apart from the long row of similar story-and-a-half houses. We loved it. It was one block off the school bus grid, so she had a long walk each day.

White blond hair and cornflower blue eyes, my beautiful child, only 11, knew I loved her without condition. She had her own key, and called me the minute she was home so I knew she was safe.

Wrong version of safe.

One morning before school, before either of us were even dressed, she came into my room fussing uncharacteristically.

“Mummy, I don’t feel good.”

We sat close together at the foot of my bed.

“In your tummy?” I asked, as I pressed my lips to her forehead. No fever.

“Mummy, I hear voices, and one is telling me bad things. It’s saying I shouldn’t be here anymore. It’s telling me I should die … but the good one says no.”

I froze, shocked and unable to process what she was saying, then my mind raced to find the right questions. It was just the two of us and had been for almost five years, and she was the happiest little thing, albeit taller and more filled out than her peers. Her close friends were lovely, and we did lots of fun things. Plus she took the requisite lessons: piano, ballet, swimming, dance, voice … and even made an unfortunate attempt at Brownies. So this revelation was so far beyond my understanding, I didn’t know what to do.

“I don’t want to go to school,” she said, crying a little.

“Tell you what, sweet girl,” I said, pulling her into my arms, hugging her, hoping she could not sense my panic, “let’s get you ready to go, and I’ll take you today. This morning I’m going to figure out what to do, how to help, and this afternoon we’ll talk about everything. How does that sound?”

“OK.”

I hadn’t resolved a single thing. I was just stalling, praying that later our good old familiar strategy would work. I would say, What’s the best solution to stress? … and she’d shout out, Action! It felt hollow that morning, but I clung to it.

Feeling helpless, but determined to do something — anything — to fix this, I took her to school, watched her little curly blond head disappear into the classroom, and dissolved in the hall. I found my way to the principal’s office and told him what had happened. He assured me that he would talk confidentially to her teacher, and together they would keep an eye on her and call me if there was need.

From my car I called my GP, who always listened intently and acted quickly. He had more contacts than God and within minutes had connected me to the psychologist who worked with a private girls school in Toronto. After I recounted the entire morning to the psychologist, he said he didn’t feel that it was a crisis.

“Reassure her, let her know that you heard her, and that it matters to you. Tell her to always talk to you about those feelings. If you sense that she feels no relief from your attention, call me again. But it sounds to me like you’ve done everything right.”

Everything right? Was he out of his mind? Somehow I had missed every sign that led to my 11-year-old daughter feeling like she should die. I was not with her 24 hours a day and clearly had no clue about what went on at school, or with her friends, or with those who were not her friends. But it was my responsibility. I had completely failed to protect her. I had not done everything right.

That afternoon when she saw me standing at her classroom door after the bell rang, I saw the surprised smile on her face, and it drove home that I would stop at nothing to protect this child.

Following that psychologist’s advice, we went home, and I let her talk. This was not a time to be a waspish mother and leave things unsaid. No. This was time for full-out hands-on heart with smarts. I remember how helpless I felt, and how alone, and how all that mattered to me was that she was OK. But I also remember the wave of relief that spread through me, as I watched her worried face relax with each word, as if by my listening she was shedding the demons that had haunted her. If only I had known that she was being teased and bullied by unkind kids who thrived on their assumed power for kicks. Little bastards.

I grew up in an era before mental health was discussed, when it was treated as a weakness, when differences of all sorts cast shadows over lives, rendering people to suffer in silence, socially marginalizing them. A gay child of the ’50s, I understood the unspoken internal and external pain and stigma of being different, of living with a dark secret buried so deep inside that you almost kept it from yourself, fearful of being cast as a criminal or deviant. No longer worthy of love. I did what I could, but I had gained no skills, no language to help my own daughter.